


The Only Thing More Poignant than Memory

by Jehanne_d_Arc



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: But only in passing, But thats quite a squint, Childhood Memories, Cold pov, Its in the cannon, M/M, Memories, Not meant to be angst, One Shot, Past Child Abuse, Snart Family Feels, Some Mention of Violence, Still a bit angst, Straight if you squint, all the emotions, coldflash - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9439889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jehanne_d_Arc/pseuds/Jehanne_d_Arc
Summary: The only thing more poignant than memories, are the spaces they leave behind.When my grandfather died  I thought the world would never make sense - and maybe I was right, or maybe it never did. The man who raised me - actually raised me - was gone... all I had left was the idea of him: how he talked, and smiled, and smelled, and the dusting of frost on his jacket when he drove his old ice-truck around the town....Second in my semi-series. A look at the role that cold, love, and memories play in Snart's life.





	

The only thing more poignant than memories, are the spaces they leave behind.

When my grandfather died, I thought the world was over. I shed so many tears - a thing that my father hadn't been able to wring from me in years - and I chanced a one-time bout of theism, praying he would come back somehow. But if god's not dead, he's deaf. I felt isolated, and I hadn't learned to accept that feeling yet. I hadn't learned to feel at home with it, to make it my own. So I tried to reach out to my sister - but then my father's beatings just hurt worse. Not just when beat me, but when Lisa tried to protect me (which she constantly tried to do). I felt scared, hollow, hurt. It felt more painful, somehow, watching him hurt her. I had learned to make myself numb to the pain from my father... but the only thing more vulnerable than pain is love.

I loved my grandfather - that is, I think I did. He passed before I reached my twelfth birthday. I thought the world would never make sense - and maybe I was right, or maybe it never did. I felt the keen loss... and the memories became something painful, something wonderful and awful all at once. The man who raised me - actually raised me - was gone... all I had left was the idea of him: how he talked, and smiled, and smelled, and the dusting of frost on his jacket when he drove his old ice-truck around the town.

Those things can mean the world to an eleven-year-old. It felt so impossible to love, with him gone, to want good things for people, to see good anywhere. It felt like life died with my grandfather... I was left out in the cold. Like watching the lights go out in the only windows you can see for miles. It feels desolate... it feels lonely... But worse is when you look back, and you realize you can't remember why you wanted that. You stop one day and realize that windows are just squares of light, and light is practically an illusion, and outside it is realistic and it is dark...

I don't remember what the truck smelled like. The ice truck that my grandfather used to drive... It's like it's just gone. I think sometimes I half remember, and then I think 'no that's a different smell' or 'maybe you just wish that you remembered'.

I can remember that he called me 'son' sometimes - as if he could make me his son instead of dad - but I can't quite remember how he said it. Was he smiling? Was he teasing me? Maybe he was just saying it to make me happy, or to make himself feel better...

And that fading... that empty hollow where a memory used to be... it aches with something that no memory ever managed for me, in the same way that my father's hate could never make me cry... but somehow my grandfather's love still could.

The only thing more poignant than memories, are the spaces left behind when memory fades. And the only thing more vulnerable than pain is love.

Memories are fickle. Love is worse.

Let the record state: I am not in love with Barry Allen. I have never loved. I never will. But I'm still haunted by the memories I have... of how he smiles... of how he glares... of the heat he gives off when he's just moved... even the scared look he gets, when he's assaulted by the cold - when it cuts into him like my father could never cut into me.

I don't mean to hurt him. It's just part of the job. He should have known not to leave himself open - when the world is cold, you wear gloves, so it won't touch you... I mean, so you can't touch it... The point is that you keep a cool head, and you're careful. It hurts - everything hurts, get used to it - but for as long as you can feel there will be pain. Pain is everywhere, and eventually you get numb to it, like the January chill. The world is a cold, cold place - and the colder it gets, the less the bruising. In the cold, in pain you don't have to open yourself up - everything wraps itself tight, and curls inwards to shield itself. Things get smart in the cold. Things get sharp.

The danger is when the thaw comes. Meat rots. Mud swirls underfoot. The crystal world that made so much sense turns to mess, and marsh, and decay that the frost kept at bay. Ice melts, water runs, and the world bares its soft underbelly and waits for the kill.

Ice is safe. Ice is clean. Ice is mine. It is my memories, and it is painful.

Thaw is death. Thaw is beautiful, and sloppy, and slowly... slowly... memories melt.

I may have loved my grandfather. I remember, I think, telling him that once. He looked sad. I think maybe he thought of my father and the way that loving him turned out. For both my mother and my grandfather, loving my father was just a matter of sitting around - waiting while the thaw came, waiting through the pain, watching him spoil and rot. I don't think I understood that feeling. I never... almost never... loved my father. So all the pain - it wasn't vulnerable, wasn't dangerous. Deadly, yes. But not dangerous. It was clean, and breaking, and it hurt, yes... but not the deepest hurt: the feeling of loss. I lost nothing with my father. He didn't love me, I stopped expecting it, we moved on. He hated me, I hated him. Big fucking deal.

I lost my grandfather. I feel that loss acutely.

I miss my grandfather. I miss my eleven-year-old self, who could have told me what his laugh sounds like. I miss myself at twelve - still hurting, still crying, still making a fool of myself a way I've since learned not to do... myself at an age when I knew what I am missing now; a me who knew how my grandfather talked, and smiled, and smelled, and whether there actually was a dusting of frost on his jacket when he drove his old ice-truck around the town. But I've forgotten how to be that boy. I've forgotten how to give that much away. I don't know how to lose anymore - how to thaw... I grew up. I grew cold. I grew accustomed to this life I've made. I've grown addicted to the game - to the ice, the adrenaline, the numbness outside and the focused energy within. I can feel pain... but vulnerability - impossible. I doubt that I even remember how...

The only thing more poignant than memories, are the spaces left behind when memory fades.

And the only thing more vulnerable than pain is love.


End file.
